


Metaphors

by mortuus_lingua



Series: Figurative Language [1]
Category: Star Trek, Star Trek (2009)
Genre: Alien Culture, F/M, Friends to Lovers, Friendship, Inexperienced!Spock, Intellectual!Uhura, Languages and Linguistics, Pre-Canon, Romance, Starfleet Academy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-06-03
Updated: 2009-06-03
Packaged: 2017-11-12 00:21:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,450
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/484556
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mortuus_lingua/pseuds/mortuus_lingua
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Originally, they met over questions of language, but a friendship grows until Spock and Uhura are navigating a complex relationship. Both are guarding their emotions from each other, until finally, communication! (This is pre-romance. The second part is more explicit.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Metaphors

**Author's Note:**

> This was originally written back in 2009 under a different pen name, the one oasis in a long writing dry spell. I planned for three parts, but only managed two before completely burning out on it. Teaches me not to force myself to complete something in a short amount of time!
> 
> A hearty "thank you, kind sir" to my editor, Bill S., who took on the challenge of catching all my little errors.

The first time she’d seen Commander Spock, Nyota had only been fascinated. Because although she knew one dialect of the Vulcan language, she had never heard it spoken outside of rare recordings in Starfleet archives. She’d always had a sinking feeling that her accent approximated, as well as she could, recordings and instruction so far removed from the primary sources that she felt like a fraud every time she attempted to speak it.  
Thankfully, communications officers in Starfleet were never really required to speak everything fluently, only to identify and approximate it. No human could speak all the languages Nyota could recognize and generally translate. 

Her perfectionist’s soul quivered eagerly at the thought of hearing it, really hearing it from a native speaker. 

Intellect was its own enemy. She would think herself into corners. It told her that although a Vulcan male would connect intellectually with a person outside of his species, the interface would be imperfect. She’d heard of the awkward approaches men and women of different races and species had attempted on Vulcans; ludicrous considering the total emotional control so prized by that culture. Emotional humans and emotionally controlled Vulcans made for an awkward mix. Throw in anything sexual, and it became a mess.

How did Vulcans propagate, she had wondered once, idly, and then laughed at herself. Of course, they had sex – they were a sexually reproducing species… one male and one female, the usual way when one came down to it. They kept much of their cultural information secret, but she knew they married, that they had children in family units. She’s seen married pairs sometimes in the media. Hell, one of the male Vulcan ambassadors had married a human woman! She supposed her dirty mind was really wondering how they had sex. Was it logical? Dispassionate? Necessary for the propagation of the species? And then: wasn’t that what many human women wondered when they looked at all that Vulcan emotional control – whether under that calm demeanor, those Vulcans were hot volcanoes of torrid passion? She had to giggle again at herself.

How to reconcile that logically? Sex for humans was the least logical process in the world, and didn’t she know it? 

 

She’d been picking at her cafeteria food between classes, and thinking something nebulous – thinking how she could get to hear Commander Spock speak in his native language, and wishing the rumors that he would be teaching at the Academy were true, and in walked the man himself.

Controlled, erect gait, bland expression. Young. Younger than she had originally thought. She could read almost anyone, even most aliens, but Spock… he was amazing, intriguing. His control seemed without a crack, and unassailable. Every turn of the head mesmerized her because she’d often wished she could have that ability, to let the world slide by and not hit her.

Nyota Uhura came from a long line of strong, emotionally giving women, women who gave, gave, gave and often left nothing for themselves. Sure, her mother and grandmother always seemed relentlessly supportive, but Nyota had seen the negative side of selflessness. As a child, she had seen people take advantage of that in her mother, to use her. She swore that she would balance emotional giving with practical selfishness. Easier said than done. She had never really perfected being altogether objective. She had the empathy so famous in her family, and she had to rein in the impulse to sympathize and expend herself in the solution of other peoples’ problems.  
She doubted anyone would take anything that Commander Spock was not willing to give. No one went to a Vulcan for emotional support. That was for sure, she reflected, and gave up on the cold vegetables and the hardened flatbread with a small sigh. Across from her, Mira and Loyd were arguing over the newest assignment in xenolinguistics. Romulan versus Vulcan – now wasn’t that a coincidence -- which dialect of Romulan to best compare with Vulcan, and Nyota, unthinkingly, said, “One surmises that the whole purpose of the assignment was not to compare two languages to discover their similarities. After all, we comprehend the similarities. The honored instructors clearly want to recreate the proto-language, the origin as it were, of both languages.”  
A pause, and they laughed, and she had to chuckle, too. Vulcans on the brain, because she’d spoken in Vulcan, something they often did with each other for practice and to keep their discussions private. Only a very, very small population of cadets could even parse one sentence in Vulcan, much less an entire string of thoughts.

Her friends stopped laughing abruptly and both sets of eyes fixed over her shoulder, high over her shoulder. Nyota knew, then, that he was standing there.

Spock.

Oh, little spirits. She had forgotten. Spock had been standing across the cafeteria. A human would not have overheard their conversation, but Spock’s world had gifted its sentient species with sensitive hearing. 

She turned in her seat uncertainly, looking up.

“Cadet Uhura?” the level toned voice asked. Yes, there he was. His eyes were nice…dark. She didn’t want to think too closely about his mouth. She had a weakness for a sensual mouth. The way he held it made her think that if he loosened up, he’d be irresistible.

She blinked. Had he really called her by name? Had she been contemplating his mouth, of all things? “Commander Spock? I’m sorry. Did I just murder you native language?”

And that’s when it happened. It shifted, not on his face, but in his eyes. Amusement. She had actually seen a response to humor… on a Vulcan. Amazing. What would an actual smile look like? “I would not choose that particular verb to describe it. Homicide is too strong a metaphor. I do believe you’ve slapped it a few times across the face.”

She could feel a wash of heat color her cheeks and wanted to laugh in delight. How she loved a man not afraid to use his vocabulary! Then she sobered. Oh, yes. She feared she had just revealed to the commander a few of her weak areas in speaking Vulcan. “Briskly slapped?” she prompted. In Vulcan, that was a different verb, meaning ‘to punish’ as opposed to the invigorating slap that meant ‘to correct.’ 

“Not quite.” He glanced at her companions, and she belatedly realized that their conversation was excluding her friends.  
“Oh, I am so sorry. These are friends and fellow communications students: Mira and Loyd. We’re all suffering from the latest big project in our class.”  
Spock’s slanted brows twitched. “Yes, xenolinguistics.” He directed his gaze at the mute and wide-eyed Mira and Loyd. “I hear that Cadet Uhura sets the bell curve.”  
Mira groaned. “Yeah, she sure does, Commander. Why do you suppose we’re clinging to her for this next big research?”  
“This is what I wished to speak to you about, Cadet,” Spock said, his focus returning to Nyota. “I have been informed that you are the top of the class in Romulan and Vulcan.”  
“Well, you see how far that goes,” she said. “I’m not being modest. I’m pretty good at hearing the differences and catching it when the computers can’t identify the small nuances, but my fluency is sadly lacking. I need more practice.”  
“I think we can help each other, then,” he said.

She knew she was in trouble when she had to remind herself that he was Vulcan. As if that wasn’t obvious every moment she looked at him! He wouldn’t need an emotional connection, an emotionally messy human sexual attraction, and she wouldn’t burden him with the awareness that was growing in her. He was male, attractive, and by the great god, there was something about him, something under that perfect veneer that she could just barely sense. Something available. It was maddening, like a phantasm. 

He needed help with the nuances of Romulan dialects, her specialty, and she needed to hear spoken Vulcan, his less academic one. Her name had been given to him from last semester’s instructor. Spock did not tell her what the instructor had said exactly. It could have been something like: “She’s pretty good, and she won’t slobber all over you. She’s got some pride, that girl.” Or “Oh, Romulan? Uhura’s a complete geek over the Romula-Vulcan connection. She’s just going to love helping you out.”  
They weren’t exactly in direct line of command, which made the policies against fraternization somewhat nebulous. That might change in the future, because the word was that Spock was working on something academic, and that classes would be turned over to him in the course of his work. She’d seen it happen with visiting academics high in Starfleet connections. No one could accuse Starfleet of not using all its resources. But for now, he was merely an officer who needed her knowledge, and she was a cadet who could deliver.

They met mostly over lunches, in the beginning, quite innocently. Even in the cafeteria, with various PADDs and sets of library chips, the conversation at first in Standard, then in Vulcan, roaming into Romulan… it was clear why they were there. It caused a few looks, but nothing more. For all she knew, the looks were all for him. He was the exotic here. Perhaps a few women would have cheerfully shoved her over to get this close.

She could imagine, quite clearly, how they felt. She felt it herself. 

But Spock was Vulcan. Nothing in his demeanor said that she was beautiful to him, or that he prized her more than any other academic prizes his resources. Their conversations rarely strayed to personal territory. He was precise, almost careful, around her. 

How many women had he had to repulse, up to this point? Surely at least some? She could at least be the one woman he did not have to be uncomfortable around. 

Not that she changed much of her personality around him. She was who she was. She spoke of her feelings as any woman might, her interest in the work she was engaged in, her thoughts on any number of current matters, political, societal, linguistic… But she kept them there. She did not force conversations into personal territory, nor expect him to react in any way besides logically.  
She tried to keep them there, to put a space that she could not leap across… an emotional no man’s-land between herself and him.  
And then, one night, drinking with her friends, someone finally told her she needed to be kinder to herself.  
Loyd was the one who had the guts to say it. “Look, Nyota. He’s everything you like; he’s your type. We get that. But if you’re not going to even try, don’t hold yourself back from someone else who could actually give you what you want.”  
The sad thing was, there’d never been someone who could really give her what she wanted. She had had parts of them – cleverness in one, politeness in another, raw sexual attraction in herself, academic rigor here, fascination there. Never altogether. It wasn’t as if she expected perfection. She just wanted someone who didn’t weary her after they’d slept together, someone who understood her drive, who frankly needed her at the level she could cope with.

Perhaps Spock was the fantasy – perhaps the things she’d sensed in him weren’t really there. But the fantasy seemed better to her than the so-called reality she found facing her across tables, desks, bars, dance floors, computers… men seeing her, but not understanding her. Needing her for all the wrong reasons and in all the wrong ways, leaving her cold and dissatisfied.

 

Still, she did not burden Spock with these thoughts. The idea mortified her. He’d most likely be disgusted. And that would just break her heart.

There were a few dinners, but not anywhere near the Academy – small, working dinners in interesting locations. The Thai place he liked because it reminded him of the local cuisine in the province where he’d grown up. She’d introduced him to African communal foods, but confessed that she preferred Greek. 

Then one night, he apologized. “I must renege on our dinner next week. My parents visit from Vulcan and I must attend to them during their stay.” No mention of her meeting them; no, they were not really friends, were they? Just colleagues. They were barely on a first name basis.

“Of course,” she replied, smiling. “I will somehow manage the week without you.” When his brows twitched, she added: “That was a little sarcasm. Sorry.”

“I perceived it.” He seemed to think about it. “Is the implication that I am monopolizing your time?”

“Oh, god, Spock, no. Not at all! It’s just – I look forward to our meetings, learning from each other, you know. It’s a bit of a habit, isn’t it? The sarcasm was for me, not for you.”

“Ah.” 

She waited for more, but there was nothing. “Then, we shall meet again in a week or so? Could you ping me when everything is settled back into routine again? I don’t want to interrupt your family time.”

“Nyota.”

“Yes?”

“Do you know who my parents are?”

“No.” How could she? He was the first Vulcan she’d ever spoken to. “You’ve never said.”  
“My father is the Vulcan ambassador to Earth, Sarek.”

She could feel her eyes growing wide. Oh, and that meant … his mother was Amanda Grayson-Sarek. He was half-Vulcan, half-human. She’d been half up out of her chair; she found herself sitting abruptly. “Oh, I see. I never realized.”

He was very still. He was the master of stillness, but this… he was waiting for a reaction and she refused to give it. It was the most tense she’d ever seen him, as if he anticipated some insulting blow.

“Well, I knew you were a rare person. Now it’s confirmed.” 

It seemed she had managed to surprise him, after all.

 

She managed to keep herself occupied, which wasn’t hard considering her class load, but she couldn’t deny that her thoughts strayed to Spock at odd times, wishing she could tell him about the new project that had been dumped on her at the last minute, or the new thesis on Romulan dialects that had so many holes in it that she almost choked on the tea she’d been drinking when she read it for the first time.  
She didn’t expect to hear from him, anticipating the passing of the week just to get to the day when they could speak, so when she came into the dorm room and saw the message light blinking at the console, she was so surprised to hear his voice that she nearly dropped her chip folders.  
“Cadet…” he began and she had to smile. He always called her that just in case her roommate picked the message up, or overhead. “…I wonder if you would care to join my parents and myself on a tour of the Unity Museum… I would appreciate it, if you have the time.”  
She frowned to herself. She’d never heard quite that tone. He was pleading ‘please come’ and she could not say no to that, not that tone, not Spock, even though the idea of meeting his parents scared the piss out of her.

She pretended that she wasn’t choosing her dress carefully, or being especially careful with her hair or cosmetics, but her roomie ruined it all by calling out after her, “Important lunch date, Nyota? Have fun!”

The Unity Museum was located in the Union Square district of San Francisco, and she’d left a little early to take a leisurely stroll past the shops that lined the street, mostly to calm her nervousness. They were waiting in the lobby when she arrived. Spock stood ramrod straight, as usual, but the stately, handsome woman at his side seemed to ignore his possible discomfort and held his arm close against her side. Definitely the stance of a mother who was anticipating having to let go of her child again soon. Opposite them both, stood Ambassador Sarek; pictures of him did not do him justice. There could not be a more dignified male representative of Vulcan, with his chiseled features and long, lean figure outfitted in traditional robes. His profile was Spock’s. Just because of that, she felt a connection.

“Nyota, good afternoon,” Spock said to her as she came up to them. Funny how she always got past the words to what he was really saying. A human would say “Good to see you.” Spock said merely the same thing without all the loaded emotional implications. “May I introduce you to my parents?”

She smiled at him and then at his mother, whose bright, dark eyes gleamed at her in curiosity around the arm of her son. She toned down the smile at Sarek, who gave her a slow nod. “I would be honored to meet your parents, Spock.”

 

“My mother worries about me,” Spock told her over dinner later that week. Curry this time. They both had a taste for it.

“All mothers worry.”

“She worries that, as a child of two worlds, I might become a child of none.”

She froze, with a cup halfway to her lips, then slowly set it down again. “Ah,” she said, and could feel her heart sinking. That was why he wanted her to meet his parents; to assure his mother that he had friends in this world, that he was not alone.

“It’s a legitimate concern,” she found herself saying. Oh, little gods, she was a fool. As if Spock could be different from anyone else. He’d had an agenda, of course, as selfish as anyone else’s, but she couldn’t have read it before now, more fool her. She picked up her fork, then set it down.

Spock put his fork down as well. Again, he seemed to be waiting, and when she looked up, his sharp eyes were observing her as closely as he would any subject of fascination. She felt examined.

“But she sees now that you’re connected,” she said, and was amazed that her voice came out cool, steady. “She’s reassured.”

Spock shifted. “Have you judged that I have misrepresented our relationship, in order to assuage the feelings of my mother?”

Couched so directly, she stalled and she saw that flicker she sometimes thought she could see in his dark eyes. “I suppose… that would depend on what sort of relationship you represented to her.” Even as she finished, she tried not to allow the emotional wince from reflecting in her face, and said quickly: “Forgive me. I don’t mean to force … I mean,” oh, she was losing the words! “I never wanted you to have to qualify…” okay, better, Nyota -- get it right “…the kind of relationship we have.”

Silence. Oh no. That could not be good, right? So many tense silences, nothing like the easy quiet she was used to from him. She’d just talked herself into a corner, and probably right out of the relationship – however he qualified it – they shared. Her stomach rolled queasily. She wanted to take a sip of water, but found both of her hands clenched, one right into the wood grain of the table in front of her, and the other on her thigh.

“If we were both Vulcan,” he said slowly, “this conversation would be superfluous. Relationships outside the family need not be qualified; they merely are.”

She nodded. Okay. That was the biggest non-answer she could ever hope to receive.  
“But, neither of us is purely Vulcan, as you may have observed, and I am at a quandary as to how this sort of negotiation is accomplished among humans. At what point does one say ‘I am your friend’?”

“In moments like this, when one wonders if a relationship to a colleague has also become one of a friend.” She could see he was absorbing it. She took the final leap. “I am your friend, Spock. Whether or not you feel...” oh, loaded word: ‘feel,’ but nothing else fit there. “…the same, I judge that is what I am. It is more than a working relationship, in my eyes.”

He nodded contemplatively, and then said clearly: “Nyota, I am your friend…as well.” His shoulders seem to rise and relax all at once, and she realized just how tense he had been, this whole time. 

She couldn’t help the smile that flashed across her face. Well, he was used to that. She’d never pretended she wasn’t human around him. “Thank you,” she said, and finally took a sip of water. 

“I told my parents that you were a colleague and friend,” he said, and likewise picked up his tea. The storm had clearly passed and relief was palpable. “Or should that have been ‘friend and colleague’?”

“I think we’ve been colleagues longer than friends, so that would be appropriate.

“All mothers, no matter the culture, are protective,” she added as an afterthought. “They worry when their children leave them.”

“Yours as well?” he asked.

“Yes, mine especially. My family – you know, I’ve never really explained about my family – we descend from as far back as pre-unified Africa. You know of the United States of Africa?”

“A large continent, spanning across the equator, largely populated by indigenous dark-complected ethnic cultures.”

He’d pegged the content but not the essence, she though dryly. “Yes. A strong vein of spirituality runs through many Africans, the Bantu especially. My people are the Bantu. And in my family, especially... The women have always been caregivers – teachers, nurses, mothers, doctors, psychiatrists… I’m the first to break away and go into Starfleet.”

“Into the sciences.”

“Yes.”

“And this has discomfited your mother?”

“Oh, very much so. It was really hard for her to let me go.” That was simplifying the histrionics and trauma that had happened, but he didn’t have to hear about human family craziness.

They lapsed into a more comfortable silence, eating. 

“It occurs to me,” he said, “that we have traveled opposite paths. My father hoped that I would stay in the Vulcan Science Academy. Instead, I chose Starfleet. To his mind, the less logical of the two choices.”

She smiled. “May I ask, how was your parents’ visit? Did it go well?”

Clearly, fairly well, because his response was immediate. “Well, I think. They were suitably impressed with my growth and promotion. Mother was particularly happy to observe my fluency in Standard has eradicated what was left of a faint accent.”

“You had an accent?” She was charmed by the thought.

His gaze intensified as it often did when she said something of interest. “That fascinates you. Why?”

“Oh, I don’t know. Accents are a link to the past, aren’t they, and a sort of minor, happy imperfection – a road sign? I like accents.”

He raised an eyebrow at her and she grinned impudently. 

“Speaking of accents, I hope I didn’t offend your father too much with my poor Vulcan.” She added quickly: “I’m not fishing for compliments. I know Ambassador Sarek is particularly strict in his assessment of language acquisition.”

“He is. However, he was very complimentary. He said your Vulcan was passable.”

“’Passable’?”

“For him, that is a compliment. My mother’s Vulcan has been ‘passable’ my entire life.”

She couldn’t help but laugh, amazed. “Really? Oh, the poor woman.”

“He did say something else that might or might not please you. He said that of the many humans he had spoken to, you had a gift for avoiding the emotional flaws inherent in Standard…when you spoke specifically to Vulcans. He noticed this changed when you spoke to the human docent at the museum.”

Emotional flaws… well, that was a very Vulcan attitude. “I imagine we all try to drop the emotionally loaded vocabulary out of respect for Vulcan cultural values,” she replied. “Perhaps my practice with conversations with you has helped me.”

“My mother has never mastered it. I think my father now regards her tendency to emote in both Standard and Vulcan as a … quirk.”

“Knowing as much Vulcan as I do, I know it’s possible to emote in it, but I think it takes a gift to consistently do so. There are just some words that don’t even exist. ‘Friend’ for example. And … mmm… ‘jealous.’ Words like those. ‘Love’ of course.” She poked at her vegetables.

“Why ‘of course’?” he asked. 

“Well, it’s the most general and emotionally loaded word that I can think of in Standard that doesn’t seem to have an analog in Vulcan at all.” Not that Vulcans had no emotions. Any fluent speaker of their language could tell that they had deep and passionate emotions, potentially aggressive emotions, but they were rigidly held in check by their cultural taboos and disciplines. “Or is it just covered by more specific words like ‘family protective impulses’ and ‘sexual life mate’ and so on? Can you pass the teapot? Mine’s gone cold.”

“Nyota,” he said, doing so, “I think it is a good thing that the difference in ages between my father and yourself negates the possibility of having met each other much earlier in life.”

She blinked at him. “Why?”

“He would have married you.”

The teapot slipped from her hand and settled on the table with a loud “clunk.” Thankfully, it had been a drop of only an inch. “I know you don’t joke, but it’s hard not to think you’re kidding me, Spock.”

“Have I shocked you? How is that possible?”

“Marry me… really! Your father is a fine man, Spock, but he’s not my type.”

His mouth twitched. “You have never shown a preference, not in my company, so how was I to know your ‘type’?”

“True. Very true. And probably my lack of a social life right now wouldn’t give you many opportunities to make a deduction. I like intelligent men, Spock, and a certain dignity is very nice. But your father? My god. The man is a stone, at least to me. There’s no putting a crack in him.”

He frowned, obviously struggling with her metaphors. Vulcans generally did not use figurative language, as precision was more important to them. “You are saying he is too remote and … inaccessible.”

“Yes, I am. Could you imagine your father sitting where you are right now, having dinner with me? Can you imagine what that would look like?”

He mouth twitched again - this time, vaguely upward. Was that - ? It was! It was a smile.  
“Did you just smile?”

The movement stilled and slid off his face like water so abruptly that she knew her suspicions were correct. “I did not.”

“You did too smile!” She tried not to crow, but it was a struggle. The huge grin on her face was bad enough. “So, you do have a sense of humor.”

“Not that I am aware of.”

She stared into his eyes, hard, and he glanced away, as if looking for strength. She giggled. “You did smile, which means you found it amusing, right? What was it, the image?”  
“I refuse to comment.”

Oh, now it was his dignity she was affronting. “Okay, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t be so rude. But I feel I just climbed a mountain and saw the sun. And yes, sorry about the figurative language.” He made an exasperated sound and she laughed. “How is the curry, by the way? You’re not eating your usual amount.”

He lifted one shoulder slightly: a human gesture that conveyed a lot of meaning.

“Well, my friend, if the food’s not to your taste, we can forget about it. There are plenty of restaurants.”

He glanced down at his plates and said enigmatically, “I would not want to forget this restaurant.” 

Me neither, she thought. Ever. She had discovered he was her friend, and she had seen him smile. This place and moment would always be fixed in her memory.

 

“So, you’ve hooked the Vulcan, huh?” Mira asked her a week later on the way from class. Nyota was still trying to figure out if she had understood today’s lesson and consequently she thought she’d misheard.

“What?” she asked, trying to figure what Mira had said, then indignantly: “What did you just say?”

“Hey, no insult. I’m actually really envious! How’d you do it?” Mira had a way of getting right to the core of everything, even if it meant plowing through several layers of diplomacy.

“Look, first of all, I haven’t ‘hooked’ him. As if anyone ever could. Second, it’s not that kind of relationship. He’s my friend.” Even to her, she sounded a bit desperate, and disappointed. Pathetic, Nyota, pa-the-tic.

“Okay, sorry to rain on your friendship-only parade, but you do realize that he looks at you differently?”

“What? When?” It wasn’t like Spock interacted often with the cadets. She couldn’t imagine how Mira could make such an observation.

“That get-together at Old Yoshi’s last night, when he was getting the drinks for us. That cadet from engineering came by and starting putting the make on you.”

Yes, she remembered that part. Spock hadn’t been there long because he didn’t drink much and was uncomfortable in large group social situations. Kind of annoying, that cadet, but a little cute. Not her type at all. He’d given her his number and after he’d left, they’d teased her about – what had they teased her about? Oh, yeah. Robbing the cradle. He couldn’t have been more than 18.

“So? You said Spock…?”

“The commander was watching the whole thing from the bar. I don’t think he even blinked. Then when the puppy left, he came back with the drinks.”

And yet nothing in his demeanor indicated to Nyota that he’d even been affected, not that she could tell half the time. “Well, we’ve been joking about my “type.” He’s said he’s never had the opportunity to figure it out.”

“You think that’s it? But you know, Uhura, Loyd and I’ve always said he’s exactly-"

“Exactly--?” Oh, that frozen look over her shoulder. She knew that look. How long had Spock been in the room during this conversation? She turned and greeted: “Hello, Commander Spock. Care to join us?”

“No, thank you, cadet. I merely wished to give your these –“ A small pile of chips in a carrying folder offered and received. He didn’t have to explain what was on them; their work was completely in sync these days. “I’ve been called to a meeting. Good day.”

“Good day.”

“He heard the whole thing.” Was Mira sweating? “Oh my god, he heard the whole, goddamn thing!”

“I wouldn’t worry about it. Vulcans generally don’t take things very personally.”

Her friend hung her head. “Oh god,” she moaned.

“What were you about to say… ‘he’s exactly—‘…?”

“Oh come on. I’ve said it before. He’s exactly your type!”

“Well, it’s a good thing you didn’t say that!!”

 

It was late and she was still poring over the data chips and copying the pertinent information over into her latest research, when she got a ping on the console. Someone was calling from a handheld without video. “Yes?” She glanced on the chrono and gaped. Jesus, it was after midnight. 

“Cadet Uhura--?”

She almost told him she was alone and then realized if he might be with other people. That meeting he’d mentioned. “Yes, Commander Spock? How may I help you?”

“It appears I am in need of a friend.” This was said in a slow and thoughtful tone. Alone, then, because she couldn’t imagine him saying that in the company of others.

“What is it? What do you need?” She couldn’t tell from his tone; she rarely could. She got more clues from his eyes than from anything else.

“I am at the Presidio Officers Club. Do you know the location?”

“I do.” She’d been invited there once for an awards ceremony.

“I have apparently drunk something anathema to human and Vulcan alike – or unalike, as the case may be.”

“If the name has “Andorian” anywhere near it, I know your pain.”

“I do not know what it was. I believe it was added to my drink without my knowledge.” He breathed deeply. “Nyota – please take me from this place.”

“Of – of course,” she said, already up and collecting her key-pass. The trains had stopped running by now, so she’d have to take a loaner car from the pool. “They don’t have transporter tech there?”

“This place is a preserved property. There are still working fireplaces.”

She laughed quietly as she ran down to the lift. “I’ll be there as soon as possible. Drink some water, if you can.”

“I will.” He hung up.

 

The Presidio was one of those old holdovers from an earlier time, not renovated for over half a century, a stucco and tile edifice with yellow electric light. She ran up to the covered front entrance, through the main door and into the foyer to find Spock sitting on a built-in bench there, hunched over with his head to his knees. He slowly righted himself to look at her.  
Oh, he was a mess. His normally pale skin was now the ashen color of a vampire, and his eyes squinted and blinked at her unsteadily.

“Spock, you look awful.” She’d wondered why he hadn’t called a cab, and now she thought she knew why. He would not want anyone seeing him like this. There was currently only one Vulcan officer serving in Starfleet Headquarters, and he was in uniform and clearly drunk, or at least suffering the after effects. 

“Thank you,” he said slowly, “for that prognosis.”

“Did you drink some water? Could you keep it down?” She crouched in front of him to look into his eyes and began to reach up to feel his forehead before she stopped herself. 

“A little.”

“All right. Let’s get you out of here. We don’t know how your metabolism’s going to get rid of this stuff, so it’s best you’re in home territory, someplace comfortable until it’s passed.” They walked slowly and carefully to the car and she made sure he was in the passenger seat securely before taking the wheel. “You know, I don’t know where your quarters are. I’d offer you mine, but you can imagine what people would say.”

He made a somewhat agreeing sound, turning his head against the headrest. “The northern officers quarters,” he murmured, and rubbed at his temples. “Please.”

Nyota had never heard him that close to broken. He was clearly in pain, unhappy and feeling exposed. She said nothing as she drove through into the northern officers’ complex and parked where he pointed. It took him a while to maneuver himself out of the passenger seat and by the time he was standing she knew she would have to walk him up and into his rooms.

“We need to figure out who slipped that stuff into your drink,” she said. 

“For what purpose?”

“There’s a fine tradition in Starfleet. It’s called ‘payback.’ Why were you drinking, anyway?”

“Finishing up of a project. Human custom to celebrate successful work.”

“I’m sorry. They should not have left you there.”

“Not their fault. I was sick, and when I came out, they had gone. 

“Nyota, could you - ?” He made a gesture with his arm and she immediately understood, sliding under his shoulder to shore him up. She’d wanted to do it all the way from the car, but had been leery of breeching his personal space. They’d actually never touched except in the process of passing objects to one another, and even then she could count on one hand the times that had happened.

Up the lift – and thank god it was so late that there was no one in the lobby or in the halls. Down a very uniform hallway, and there they were. He pressed his hand to the entry panel and the door slid open – one of those new automated doors that made only a slight sound. He did not pull away from her, so she went in with him. And she noted to herself: Vulcans were heavy.  
The lights came up automatically, and she blinked, a bit blinded. “You need to lie down. I’ll get you something cold for your head. It’s aching, right?”  
“’Aching’ is inadequate,” he said, and if he wasn’t in such misery, it would have been goddamned hilarious, because it sounded like his equivalent of a whine. “There are painkillers in the bathroom.”  
“Okay.” She released him carefully and watched him slowly go through a set of sliders made to appear as if they were Japanese paper and wood panels, and turned back to find the bathroom. Everything was neat and minimal, practical and functional. If she had less on her mind, she would very curious about little touches of individuality she could see out of the corners of her eyes. She definitely recognized a Vulcan instrument mounted on the wall in the front room. 

In the bathroom, she found a tidy little pile of deep blue towels and commandeered one to run under the cold water while she hunted through the medicine mirror for aspirin. There were not a lot of medicines in there, but she was trying to focus and not be nosey. No way would he have hangover pills, or cysteine by itself.

Next: a trip to the kitchenette for a glass and water. From the bathroom, she had heard him opening and closing the closets. A glance at the closed bedroom doors as she passed into the living area proved that the doors were mostly opaque, but that the light inside the bedroom gave her a hazy silhouette. He was changing out of his uniform. She nearly tripped over her own feet into the kitchen counters for not paying attention to where she was going.

Swift, Nyota, really swift, she chided herself, forcing her eyes away from that view of him pulling off his uniform shirt. Her face was hot and her heart was beating too fast. My god, good thing he was half-incapacitated and no mind-reader, or he’s start screaming for the hills if he had a single inkling of what was going on in her mind right now. 

She was finishing filling the glass when he slid the door open, which was as good as any invitation. She found him sitting on the edge of his still-made bed, rubbing his temples with his fingers. And, oh, the thinner and lighter materials of his sleep pants and shirt? Showing her a musculature she’d only imagined. His body was more than nice, in a lean, rangy way.  
Mind on the game, Nyota, she reminded herself. “Here, take these,” she told him, passing the aspirin and then the glass. He obeyed and she watched him until he drained the whole glass. Taking it back, she nodded at the bed. “In you go.”

She went to fetch the cool, wet towel and returned to his side. Still too pale by far, and she had no right imagining him naked when he was so miserable. She was a bad, bad woman. “This should help the headache a little. The aspirin should take over in a few minutes.” 

Unthinkingly, she pressed the back of her hand against his forehead. Over-warm, but not terrifically hot. But she’d gotten his attention. “Sorry, it’s – it’s a family thing we do. You know, taking care of each other.”

“My mother makes the same gesture,” he murmured as she laid the cold cloth over his forehead. “That feels…”

“Good, right? God, I hope you got a little of the fun part being drunk before the liquor gave you this miserable hangover.”

He looked at her. “There is a fun part?”

“Usually. That’s why people drink.”

“Hnn.”

“Anyway, I’d love to stay and chat, but you know—don’t want to you give a bad reputation. And you need to seriously sleep.”

“What about … your reputation?”

“Are you kidding?” She tried to make light of it. “Didn’t you hear Mira in the cafeteria this afternoon? Romancing you would be a gold medal, according to the cadets.” At his clearly shocked look, she added: “Sorry, that’s a bad joke. My reputation would be a bit marred, but not too seriously. You’re senior officer, after all. Look, could you ping me by noon? If I don’t hear from you by then, I’m sending an ambulance.”

“Nyota.”

“Hm?”

“Thank you.”

She smiled at him. “What are friends for, but to call on in times of trouble?” Rising, she began to calculate the time and how much sleep she could squeeze into before morning classes. She didn’t want to reflect on this night’s doings, oh no. She did not want to dissect the fact that Spock’s “thank you” was more fulfilling to her emotionally than other peoples’ more lavish expressions of gratitude. She was doing it again, but she didn’t care. She would be supportive, but watch out if he broke her heart! And a little voice whispered, Of course he’ll break your heart. He’s a goddamn Vulcan, Nyota, and you’re falling in love with him. She ignored the little voice, against all her better judgment. For once she didn’t want to analyze the balance of giving and receiving to find an inconsistency. 

Nyota was surprised to feel his hand closing over her fingers. She gave him what had to be a startled look; she knew her eyes had gone wide. “Spock?”

He had to be half-dead, and she couldn’t read him past the dazed, hazy look and his wan expression. “I had hoped not to be a burden,” he said, bringing her hand to his temple. It had to be the touch he had referred to, the one from his mother. But then he reached up with his other hand and touched the side of her face, very briefly. The gesture had a very Vulcanish air to it, slightly ceremonial. 

“You’re not a burden! Why would you say something like that?” Anything but a burden. It was she who could potentially be the burden if she couldn’t reign in her erotica imaginings and emotional attachment.

“Association with me… never seems to be a benefit. Too strange, not human enough –“ He was starting to slur, starting to drop off to sleep. She leaned closer to hear his words. “Everyone always commenting…”

Oh, Spock. She suddenly wanted to cry. All this time, she was avoiding burdening him with her emotions and all along he’d been trying not to burden her with everyone’s commentary. It was so sad. “You don’t know how much I value you, then, if you think you’re a burden,” she whispered, but he was asleep, out like a light. “…stupid half-Vulcan,” she added, just because she could.

She tucked him in, and risking one last glace at his sleeping face and resisting the urge to run for her communicator and use the photo option, she picked up after herself and let herself out of his quarters.

 

She didn’t get any sleep that night. She had Spock on the brain in a bad way, alternately aroused and then not wanting to touch herself for fear of making her fantasies that much more vivid. When Gaila, her roommate, slipped in pre-dawn, she closed her eyes and pretended to sleep just to avoid questions. 

She had serious lust for the man, but under it she knew it was more than that. She could spend her life being his friend and never touching him, and come out ahead (if not thoroughly frustrated). The tantalizing possibilities between them, the hints at accessibility, his marked preference for her company… she almost wished they weren’t there so she could convince herself it wasn’t possible. Maybe it wasn’t, still. Compatibility could still be an issue. His sexuality might not even connect with hers in the right way. 

Such thoughts began the day, and it all went downhill from there. She’d traded on her sterling attendance record and called in sick, which then cascaded into panicked calls from her lab partners. Spock left only a voice message saying, dryly, that he “was still in existence and barely sentient” and would talk to her later, and finally, when she had showered and sat hunched over her tea, the real topper.

*He* called. Goddamn those academy message addresses. You just had to know a person’s last name and they could track your mail, and from there (if resourceful), track down your number.

“Hey, Uhura!”

“Oh god… Jim Kirk. What soon-to-be dead person gave you my number?”

“Now, is that a way to talk to an old friend?”

“Since when does a bar brawl in Iowa create a friendship?”

“Ah, now, that’s no way for my favorite communications cadet to talk.”

She groaned and put her head down on the table. “Please just tell me what you want, Kirk.”

“Okay, so. There’s a new command simulation that they test-ran yesterday. A real killer. But to participate, you choose your own bridge crew. Now, I’ve got Bones on board, and together we pulled in a couple of cadets out of our section, but I want you as the communications officer. It’s crucial.”

“You have got to be kidding me.” But she was intrigued. “What’s the sim called?”

“Kobi – Kobi-something. Hold on… Kobayashi Maru.”

“Japanese. Means… small-forest ship. Weird.”

“Yeah? Figured you would know that. See, that’s what I like about you, Uhura. You’re so reliable.”

Nyota stared bitterly at her coffee. Yeah, reliable. Oh, just grow up! she railed at herself. Get Spock of your goddamned brain for half a second! “You know what, I think I’d like the challenge. Let me know when you’ve scheduled it. I’ll be there.”

“All right! Thanks, Uhura. Hey, isn’t it about time you told me your first name-?”

She hung up with a roll of her eyes.

 

She was walking out of subspace sound theory class and paused when someone called her name. Loyd drew up to her and gave her a grin. “So, do I congratulate?”

“About what?”

“Someone saw you.”

“How exciting.”

“You know – coming out of officer’s quarters.”

Nyota stared at him in horror. “What?!”

“So it’s true?”

“No! I mean, Commander Spock got stranded and I took him home is all.” She watched as Loyd’s face as he waved a juicy bit of gossip goodbye . “You mean to tell me, it’s all over the academy?”

“Not all over.”

“Oh my god, he’s going to absolutely freak.”

“Oh, lighten up! He’s not your commanding officer! You’re totally out of his chain of command. I mean, Kirk is sleeping with his strategy instructor and nobody’s done a thing.”

 

She called Spock that day, but his communicator shunted it to messaging. She didn’t know quite what to say that wasn’t damning. “Listen, Commander. Someone saw me after I got you home the other night, and I think there are rumors flying. I’m sorry. Short of teleporting from the lobby and abandoning the loan car, I don’t know how I could have avoided it. If anyone gives you grief, tell me, okay? God, I hate this kind of thing. Talk to you later.”

 

He did not call that night.

Nor the next day.

She was about to admit that perhaps the rumors had put him to flight and she’d never hear from him again when her communicator went off during afternoon run between morning and afternoon classes. She stopped, catching her breath and picked it up. “Yes?”

A pause. “Nyota?”

“Spock?”

“Good afternoon.”

“Good afternoon to you, too. How have you been?”

“Well. Thank you. I received your message.”

“Yeah, I’m sorry about that. Has anyone said anything to you?”

“No. Although I suspect some human men have been congratulating me for more than the completion of the project. One slapped me on the shoulder today and said he’d never though I ‘had it in’ me. I assume he meant sexual matters.”

“Oh. Oh dear.” She was already flushed from running, but she could feel the heat in her face grow, nonetheless. “I didn’t see anyone out in the lobby or lot when I left, so I didn’t realize until a friend at school asked if he ought to be congratulating me.”

A small silence. “Fascinating.”

“Maddening, actually. I’m glad to hear from you. I don’t think we’ve gone three days without a conversation in a long time.”

“I apologize. Have I worried you?”

Own up to it, Nyota. “A little. I thought maybe you’d decided it wasn’t worth it.”

“Our friendship, you mean.”

“Uh, yeah. I mean, yes. It’s gotten complicated. I thought maybe … you’d rather not have the complications.”

“I have lived my life with complications since my conception, Nyota. Never fear that the opinions of others rank very high in my concerns. You matter. That is what is important.”

She felt, suddenly, that she needed to sit down. You matter. Had she just imagined that part? It felt like the equivalent of someone declaring their undying love. “I- I, ah..”

“Could we see each other tonight?”

“I- ah, sure.” She tried to get her mind out of the gutter. Wasn’t happening. She worked around it. “Dinner?”

“Let me make you something. My quarters. Would 1900 be appropriate?”

“Yes. Yes, of course. 1900 it is. See you then.”

Had her life just spun into an alternate dimension? Was Spock making her dinner in his quarters? She found a bit of lawn and sat, putting her head between her knees. 

Three days of nothing, and now this. What did it mean?

And more importantly, what was she going to wear?

 

The academy chorale had finally decided on a real thriller of a song to spice up their next concert. Uhura hummed the Old Earth song, translating it in her mind because she knew the other members would ask. 

What if I never speed?  
Shall I straight yield to despair,  
And still on sorrow feed  
That can no loss repair?

Hm. Yes. In other words, our gloomy author is asking himself if he shouldn’t hurry up, because otherwise he might be incredibly sad.

But hurry up in what? The second stanza would probably further elaborate.

In the meanwhile, she stood in front of her opened closet, about to yield to despair. In that way, the song was appropriate, so far.

Let’s therefore essay the next stanza. 

Or shall I change my love?  
For I find pow'r to depart,  
And in my reason prove  
I can command my heart.

Ah, so the question of hurrying had something to do with the age-old problem of love. The lovelorn author questions whether he should change his affection (as if he could!) because he feels he can manage to leave his beloved, and in so doing demonstrate his ability to reason his way out of his feelings. Although the last part: “…in my reason prove / I can command my heart” reminded her of Spock. Spock, who had invited her over for dinner, in his quarters. Thus, her dilemma. Thus, her dissatisfaction with her wardrobe. Thus her procrastination, by translating this idiotic 19th century song about a man who clearly had too much free time.

But, on to the third stanza:  
But if she will pity my desire and my love requite,  
Then ever shall she live my dear delight.  
Come, come, come, while I have a heart to desire thee,  
Come, come, come, for either I will love or admire thee.

The first two lines almost stumped her. If the beloved woman felt sorry for the man and returned his love, she would live joyfully? Uhura tried to retrace the argument. What had pity to do with love? Or was this a reference to courtly love? The man entreats her to come to him, while he still wants her, because he can chose between loving and admiring her.  
Choosing between loving and admiring. Well, she was an expert on that, wasn’t she? She supposed people could make that sort of choice superficially. She’d chosen expressing admiration over love. They were friends. Friendship with Spock was amazing. She might regret that they would never be lovers, but if she had to choose between friendship and an awkward break because he could not return her feelings, she’d choose friendship every time.

Back to the dilemma. Enough procrastination. Mr. “Hurry or I’ll Reason My Way out of Love” would have to wait for further interpretation.

It was dinner in Spock’s quarters, which implied at least a sort of casual approach, right? Nyota stared and stared at her minimal wardrobe and cursed herself for not going shopping with Gaila last week. Gaila would never have let her leave a store until she’d bought something sexy, or at least more provocative than the endless classic slacks and silk blouses. Two a-line dresses lurked in the back of the closet and those received a closer inspection. They were in the back for a reason, she decided, but the turquoise one was better than wearing her uniform, which would have been her next choice.

The aforementioned Gaila was thankfully out for drinks, and would not be offering her wardrobe advice or worse yet, wardrobe loans. What looked appropriate on a sexually driven, body-loving party animal would look like … god, she didn’t want to imagine it. There were pieces of clothing in Gaila’s closet made of clear plastic. Ouch.

As soon as Spock opened his door, she guessed he was making Vulcan cuisine. Unfamiliar rich, spicy scents wafted past her nose and began to trigger her salivary glands. “Oh my god, what are you cooking? It smells amazing!”

He let her in and the door closed behind her. In Vulcan, he said: “The food of my fathers is best made in the home.”

“You must name me all the spices,” she replied in the same language. Then she really looked at him and her jaw dropped. “Is that… a traditional robe?” He was wearing a loose-weave shirt and pants under a brown, embroidered robe. 

“Not traditional in a historical sense. It is, however, appropriate to wear in the company of honored visitors.”

“I see. Is it acceptable for this honored visitor to watch you cook?” She could see that the food was still on the stove in pots. “I am very interested.”

“Yes, if you would sit.” He waved her to a stool on the other side of the kitchenette’s counter. “What sort of drink would you prefer? I have a little wine, spring water and an iced tea.”

“What the host wishes to dispense is perfect for the guest.” Oh, she loved the Vulcan language! Almost ever social situation had a fixed set of phrases. After he’d poured her a glass of the tea, she leaned on the counter and watched him grind some unfamiliar dried leaves with a mortar and pestle. “What is that?”

“Thrasis. A spice. Here.” He found a small spoon, put a little of the powder there and handed it to her. “It is one of the milder ones.”

She smelled it first, then tool a little on her tongue. He was watching her out of the corner of his eye. “It takes a little like…anis? Yes, very much like, but less sweet.”

“It is a favorite on bread.” He crouched to retrieve a baking pan and the smell of freshly baked bread permeated her whole head. He brushed some sort of golden oil over the top of the flatish pan bread, sprinkled thrasis on it, and pulled it apart, and put a piece on a plate to slide her way. “Drink. Then bread, then the meal.”

“Thank you.” This she said in Standard. “You know, this is very kind of you. It’s a lot of work.”

“It is the only way to allow you to experience Vulcan cuisine,” he replied, “and allows me to repay a debt.”

So that was it. “Oh, I see.” That actually created a happy little glow inside of her. No one had ever cooked for her as a thank you. Usually it was out for drinks, and a second agenda usually came with the drinks. 

For a while she entertained herself by staring at the precise cut of his hair against the nape of his neck as he bent to his task over the stove. Such black hair and such a fair neck. How would it feel to run her hands through his hair? She had to be really desperate to be lusting after just that slice of bare skin. A flash of memory from that night, the soft night clothes against the muscles of his lean body, and she nearly groaned. Not now. Not now. No erotic imaginings for you, Nyota. Instead, she bit into the bread and made a sound of appreciation. It was delicious. 

“I have discovered the culprit,” he said while taking one pot off the stove and turning down the flame on another.

“Culprit? Oh, you mean the…” She could not find an equivalent for ‘bastard.’ “…person who jimmied your drink?” The Vulcan word for "jimmied" actually meant "sabotaged."

“He apologized. What does ‘death warmed over’ mean?”

She would have laughed if she wasn’t so outraged. “It means he was feeling really guilty about making you sick. You probably weren’t looking very healthy when he saw you. You know, if you’d had a serious reaction, you could have died.”

“Regardless, he outranks me considerably, so filing a grievance or continuing to debate the issue serves little purpose.” He glanced at her keenly. “The intention was merely to include me into the social group, not to incapacitate me.”

She dropped it because he clearly wanted her to. However, Nyota filed this information in the back of her mind for a later date. Male, high rank, part of Spock’s latest project (whatever that was; it was all hush-hush)…she’d remember when it was important to remember. Maybe the man hadn’t meant to harm Spock, but she wouldn’t put it past someone to lie about their own motivations. She changed tactics. “Thank you for this experience, by the way. Very few outsiders get to understand the everyday workings of Vulcan culture.”

“Yes,” he agreed. “Please take the drinks to the table. I think this is almost ready.”

She took her tea and his water over to the small table, which was simply set. “Where should I sit?”

“The honored guest decides.”

So she did and he came out with the plates already arranged with at least four separate vegetable dishes, and more of the amazing bread. She then realized that the utensil next to her plate was not in fact a fork as she knew it. It was pretty long, and the forked end had only 2 long tines that were not curved. There was no curve to it at all, no indication of how it should be held. She looked up and watched as Spock showed her an overhand sort of method, but she got her finger position wrong. His mouth twitched, and he stood, rounded the table and stood behind her, arranged her fingers, walking her through the first few eating motions. He mind flashed on that night again, but this time when he’d touched her on the side of the face with his hand. 

He’d touched her more times in the last week than they’d touched for the better part of a year. Was there significance to that, a loosening of protocol because of friendship?

Once he was satisfied that she could eat in a civilized fashion, he returned to his seat. “Vulcans do not often talk while eating, and if they do, it is of calming things. No abrupt news, no business.”

“Hm.” She tried to think of something appropriate. “That’s a difficult one.” And then, “Oh, I’m not sure it’s business, but I thought it was interesting. An old… acquaintance rang me up the other day and asked if I could participate with him on a sim.”

Spock’s eyes flickered. “A sim? A training simulation?”

“Yes, a command training simulation, to be exact. A new one. The one with the Japanese name. Have you heard of it?”

“I have. When are you scheduled?”

“I don’t know. He had to get his bridge crew together and I was the last position to fill as communications officer before he could submit for a slot.”

“I cannot fault his logic in choosing you. But you implied that he wasn’t a friend.”

“Far from it. Annoying, womanizing… but really great at strategy. A sort of leap-into-the-heart-of-danger sort of guy.”

“Not your type.”

She gazed at him in surprise. “You’re right. Absolutely not my type.”

“But you are his type.”

She blinked. “I’m sorry. Do you know Kirk?”

“I do not. But I can perceive by your tone that you have rebuffed him, or am I misinterpreting?”

“No, you’re absolutely right. He tried, in a really clumsy way, to pick me up once. He was drunk. I know that there are women who are attracted to inebriated strangers slurring through their pickup lines, but I just think they’re complete morons.”

Spock tilted his head and regarded her. “I have created a growing list, Nyota, of male behaviors you do not like.”

“Really? Why, so you can determine my type?”

“For example. You do not like very young men.”

“True. Too immature.” Too inexperienced, she might have said, but she had no idea of Spock’s level of experience, and so did not.

“You do not like spontaneous men.”

“Hm. Well, aggressively spontaneous men. Spontaneity isn’t in itself a bad thing.”

“Corrected. So, I add aggressive to the list of dislikes?”

“Yes.” She smiled at him. “You seriously have a list?”

“It is not a very long list. You do not appreciate stupidity.”

“Well, of course not.”

“So, then your ‘type’ is: mature, mild, intelligent and possibly a little spontaneous. Am I correct so far?”

“Entirely.” She looked down and ate her vegetables. They were pleasantly different in taste and texture from each other, and all had a spice component. She’d heard a joke that Vulcans made up in hearing for what they lost in taste. And then she thought: He’s just described himself. Does he realize that? “Would it be rude to ask if you have a type?”

“Between friends, I do not believe it to be rude. But I do not know that I have ever given the matter serious consideration.”

“Really? And I have even less observations to make my list than you had to make yours. Although I imagine the person would have to be intelligent and logical.”

He nodded. “Certainly.”

“Open-minded.” Well, they’d have to be, with a half-human. 

“Yes.”

“Hm. Let me see. Academic?”

“Or intellectual.”

“Right. Decisive.”

“I consider it a virtue if used properly.”

“Only a little emotional… I guess, appropriately emotional, if that is possible.”

He tilted his head, considering. “Appropriately emotional will do.”

“…supportive?” She now knew she was describing his mother in almost every regard.

“Yes.”

“Anything I left out?”

Spock gazed at her, and then away as if collecting his thoughts. “A certain empathy, perhaps.”

“Oh, really? Okay.” Somehow, she couldn’t stop a small smile from forming.

 

“This is really a lovely instrument, Spock,” she called from the front room as he prepared the after dinner tea. “Do you play?”

“It is considered a sort of meditation; I play it when I require peace.”

She could hear him setting the tray on the coffee table. “I’ve only heard recordings and seen pictures of Vulcan lutes. Although I think that’s a mistranslation. This isn’t fat-bellied enough to be a lute. More like a lyre or a harp. You know, if it isn’t too private a thing, I would be privileged to hear you play sometime.”

“Perhaps.”

She turned back and joined him on the couch, watching him pour tea from a very aesthetic pottery tea pot. “Mother brought this on her last visit. I prefer it.”

“So I take it by this invitation that you really don’t mind people assuming the worst?” Hadn’t this dinner been an illustration of that point?

“We are not breaking regulations,” he reminded her mildly.

“No. But I know you don’t like commentary about your relationships.”

He bent his head and sipped, and she followed suit. The tea’s flavor was deep and cinnamon-like; she liked it and said so. 

“What did you mean, that I was a ‘gold medal’?”

“Oh, you remember that?” She cringed when she remembered when she’d said it. She’d hoped the hangover would have kept him from recalling. When he looked at her expectantly, she sighed. “Humans sometimes see impossible or near-impossible tasks as challenges.”

“I have observed that tendency.” At her pointed look, an expression of startled realization passed over his face. “You are saying I am a challenge.”

“Some people would definitely think so. The entry on Vulcans in the Starfleet manual is really, really sparse… and the emotional control aspect would be challenging to some.”

He seemed to need a moment to digest this. “You do not think I am a challenge.” It was not a question.

“No.” Definitely not a challenge. “More like …” oh, she should not have started that sentence. “…something interesting to discover.”

He merely looked at her with crooked brows.

“Look, I know you hate my figurative language, but it’s the best way to explain. It’s … finding a language you’ve never seen before. You like how it sounds, and the more you study it, the more fascinating it becomes. You keep studying it, not because it’s for a grade or because you have to conquer it. You’re just interested in knowing it.”

He took a breath and nodded. “I like that particular analogy.”

“Thank you.”

“You said that there was not a lot of information on Vulcans. We’re a very private race. The information that is not there, biological and cultural, could disconcert other species. It’s generally only available on a need to know basis.”

“It’s shocking?”

“It could be.”

She tried to imagine what could be so shocking that Starfleet refused to include it in the manual. Considering the number of strange species listed and the various biological oddities, she couldn’t imagine it, but she had to trust that it was so, if Spock judged it to be. “All right.”

“I believe I must reveal one of those secrets to you.”

Nyota gave him a puzzled glance. “…as your friend?”

“Partially.”

He was giving her a lot of noncommittal answers tonight. “All right.” It was not a light thing. She could see that he had struggled to make the decision. “I won’t tell anyone.”  
“I know. The fact is, Nyota, that most Vulcans are touch-telepaths.”

“Touch-telepa—“ she echoed, then it hit her like one of those old fashioned steam trains. For the first time since she’d known him, she experienced the warring sensations of wanting to be as far from him as physically possible, and yet close enough to hit him, hard. She controlled the impulse, barely, but it rose as a twitch. She tensed, as if to run, and had to look away from him, at her knees. “Give me a moment.”

“Nyota—“

“Have a little patience, for god’s sake. I – I can’t--” Her mind raced. When was the last time they’d touched, and what had she been thinking? The fork… no, that was safe. The night she’d taken him home… oh, little gods. She’d been struggling all that night against the attraction she felt for him. With horror, she realized that everything now fit. “You didn’t talk to me for three days after that night, and now you’ve invited me here, to your quarters, and made me dinner.”

“Yes.”

“You saw everything, didn’t you?” She whispered this to her knees.

“It was not my intention to invade your privacy. It was not something I would have done knowingly. It is not something Vulcans would do knowingly, without consent.”

She nodded toward her knees. “I’m so embarrassed, Spock. Just – just – if you’re upset with me, you need to say it now. Just tell me now so I don’t keep wondering just how awful I’ve messed this up.”

“I am not upset.”

She took a startled, deep breath. Opened her mouth to speak, and then shut it. Took another deep breath.

“Nothing has been altered. The essential fundamentals are the same.”

“…it took you three days to figure that out?” It was pissing her off a little, the thought that he’d sat on it for so long and then told her this. My god. 

“I was… I required time to reflect.”

Yes, she could just imagine what he had to reflect on. The burden of a cadet’s lust for him, or worse, a friend’s. “Are you disappointed in me?”

“Nyota!” The snap of his voice jerked her upright to stare at him in surprise. “You are being oddly obtuse.”

She could only continue to stare at him, desperately wishing she was anywhere but here, having this awful conversation. “You have to explain it to me, then. Teach me. What am I not understanding? I’ve had these feelings for so long, and I’ve been in terror of forcing you to deal with them. And here it is, the nightmare I’ve envisioned!”

A change came over his face, as if some puzzle had been solved. “Ah, I think I begin to comprehend. First, let me assure you that I am neither upset nor uncomfortable.”

She searched his eyes. He seemed concerned for her, and intensely focused as he sometimes was, but not at all disturbed in the way she’d feared. “You’re not.”

“No,” he reassured her. 

She put a hand over her mouth in relief, wishing she could choose between laughing and crying. “O-Okay.”

“Two: I imagine that you think I have no feelings in the matter, but I do have feelings.” Here, his calm was fracturing. He glanced away from her and his hands convulsed together in his lap.

Nyota swallowed, and nodded. Here it was: the subject both of them had studiously avoided since their first meeting. And it was clearly wrenching for him to talk about it, with only a thin veneer of calm. She’d never seen him quite this nervous. She’d never been this nervous. It was as if he was pronouncing a sentence on their relationship, and she could only await his decision.

And then the unexpected happened. He raised his hand to her, and rested his fingers lightly against her cheek. “Nyota, you are my friend. Friendship requires a certain acknowledgement of affection, does it not?”

She was mesmerized; that had to be it. She managed a slow, slight nod, not wanting his fingers to move away. Then, her mouth seemed to work without her censoring it: “It’s more than that, for me.”

His dark eyes flared. “It is also more, for me.”

Her lips parted in her surprise and overwhelming disbelief. Of all the things she could have predicted he would say, that would have been absolutely the last on the list, right under ‘Cadet Uhura, I am honored, but cannot acknowledge such undisciplined emotions at this time.’ “Spock—“she breathed. “Have I been completely stupid?” Had the clues been there all along and she hadn’t seen them?

“No, Nyota. It … pains me that you should even suggest it. Instead, I think we have both been overly-careful of each others’ feelings, and in the process willfully misunderstood one another.”

“Spock.” With trembling fingers, she returned his caress. “What is it you need from me?”  
Because, god help her, she apparently knew nothing of how he felt or what he wanted. He would have to tell her because she was not a telepath and she could only read him to a point. It was almost refreshing, in a way. The burden was on him to explain, and not for her to decide.

He closed his eyes. “You. Just you. Nothing else.”

Her smile was a tremulous as her fingers. “How can we be so alike? Do you know that you’re on my mind so often? I need you, too. To be with you, to hear your voice…”

“And this?” he asked, and his fingers firmed, cupping under her jaw. “This, too?” He was intent on her answer, almost anxious. 

“This especially.”

The first touch of their lips was tenuous, barely there. In his tenseness, she could see that he was poised on the loss of motor control, feeling his way through this alien touch, and he had never kissed a woman in a sexual manner, ever. It amazed her, this cautious inexperience – how fragile this moment truly was and how courageous he had to be, to step into the unknown with her.

Another touch, and another. So soft and cautious, like no other kisses she’d ever experienced. Not even really sexual in a way she could recognize, except that she was vibrating with arousal and his breath was catching and releasing unsteadily. His eyes were closed, and his brow furrowed as if he were thinking very deeply about what they were doing.

They both breathed together, perhaps in relief. “Do you truly wish to see me without my clothing?” he asked abruptly in a puzzled voice, and she laughed breathlessly, shocked and embarrassed.

“Well, eventually. We humans are pretty visual.” Resting her forehead against his, she continued: “Vulcans don’t find nudity sexy .. er… sexually…” Should she be trying to edit her thoughts? Could he tell that just the idea of seeing him naked made her heart rate pick up?

“A week ago, I would have said nudity was merely aesthetically pleasing. Now, however…” He showed no signs of wanting to pull away, and in fact rolled his forehead lightly against her – a brow nuzzle, as it were. “The thought is gaining favor by the day.”

She laughed softly. “Tonight, I was turned on by just staring at the back of your neck, just because it was the only exposed skin I could focus on.”

He gave her an intrigued furrow of his brows. “The back of my neck?”

She closed her eyes and nodded, mortified. She slid her hand through his hair and down the back, where the cut became short and it bristled a little under her fingers. His hair was thick and strong. “Here.”

“You may stare at my neck as much as you wish,” he murmured generously. Clearly, he did not understand her fascination. “I enjoy your touch there as well.”

“You do? You wouldn’t mind me touching you there -- in private, of course?”

“Of course.” He seemed amused by her. “Although I prefer a kiss.”

“Oh, already you have preferences?” She smiled and kissed him again, and he kissed her, already surer in his response.

Against her lips, she thought he smiled back, but she would let him keep that secret for now.


End file.
